


I Was In The Darkness

by TemporalRanger (dorianpavus)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blindness, Incest, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-26
Updated: 2012-05-26
Packaged: 2017-11-06 01:14:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dorianpavus/pseuds/TemporalRanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was puberty that bought the changes, more than the usual cracks in the voice and embarrassing dreams, it brought with it a creeping darkness, a world that dimmed a little more each day until it disappeared, vanished into nothingness. Colours faded, one by one, faces became shapes became blurs became blackness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Was In The Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://morganoconner.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://morganoconner.livejournal.com/)**morganoconner** for Round 6 of the Five Acts meme, for the kinks "sibling incest" and "blindness".

Cas hasn't always been this way. As a child, he'd been normal enough, bright and glued to his brother's side. It was puberty that bought the changes, more than the usual cracks in the voice and embarrassing dreams, it brought with it a creeping darkness, a world that dimmed a little more each day until it disappeared, vanished into nothingness. Colours faded, one by one, faces became shapes became blurs became blackness.

He remembers, though, what things looked like, what _Dean_ looked like. He clings tightest to these memories, to Dean and the colour of his eyes, the freckles on his cheek that may have faded now, for all Cas knows. But they slip through his fingers anyway, a little more each day, getting a little harder to remember, a little harder to hold the image in his mind, the edges bleeding away into formlessness more and more.

But for now, he can touch Dean's cheek and "see" what he's touching, know the faint golden sheen to his skin and the light smattering of freckles that he has no way left to discern; can touch Dean's mouth and see the crooked smile, the way one side of his mouth curls upward as he tilts his head into Cas' touch. When he falls on the bed, feels the rough softness of flannelette under his hands, he can identify Dean's Star Trek sheets, can imagine, sometimes, what Dean might look like stretched upon them.

Some things, though, he has no reference for. The way Dean has filled out under his fingers, the new firm flatness of his stomach that's replaced the slight pudge Cas had known, the smooth skin of Dean's shoulder where it had gotten burnt. They're nothing but a map of touches, mapped and remapped whenever the chance presents. How Dean looks when he slides into Cas, as he moves slowly, when he comes to pieces, are moments painted only in sounds, the way Dean's breath shudders, and catches, skitters across the skin on Cas' neck, how he moans –stifled with difficulty, so no one can hear, no one but Cas - and shivers; the way his fingers tighten on Cas' hips.

The way Dean's lips brush against Cas', seeking permission before he takes, the touch of his lips too soft for something that arrests so much of Cas' attention, makes him shiver and buck into Dean's touches, hypersensitised skin twitching under Dean's fingers, arching towards each touch that trails light across his skin, sears each point of contact into his conscience until thought is burned away, until Dean's whispers of _Cas_ and _Baby_ and _Sweetheart_ shimmer across his skin almost tangibly and there is _nothing_ in his world that isn't _Dean_.

He doesn't know what this is like for Dean, whether his touches leave the same too-bright, too-hot trails against Dean's skin that Dean's do on his. Whether Dean can smell the tang of sex and sweat on their skin, overwhelming, as they fall together, a tangle of limbs. If Dean's as aware of the course of every breath, every puff of air on his skin, furnace hot as it brushes across nerve-ending after nerve-ending in succession. If it overwhelms Dean as much, the taste when they kiss, stolen moments hidden in their room. If whatever Dean sees when he whispers _you're gorgeous, little brother_ is a bonus or trade off.

He wants to return it, wants to tell Dean that he's beautiful, but compliments from a blind man mean nothing, are worth less than the air they gust out on, and Dean wouldn't take them anyway. Dean, who touches Cas like he might break whatever's between them that shouldn't be between brothers, like he thinks Cas might change his mind, like Cas _could_ ever change his mind. Like Dean isn't the only one who doesn't tread on eggshells around him, doesn't treat him like an invalid. Like Dean's touches aren't a hundred, a thousand times brighter than anyone else's. Like it wasn't always going to go this way, entangled in Dean's childhood sheets, skin against skin, the contact burning through every shred of Cas' awareness, even in rest, in sleep.

Like Cas could ever _see_ anyone else.


End file.
